Time Travel: A Cautionary Tale
by Rainlight2427
Summary: I heard a shout and shut my eyes, terrified. Then I skipped back, away from pre-TV America. Back to my family's cramped Chinatown apartment, back to Jason DuPont and Violet Chastley, back to all of the twenty first century, and back to all of my fifth grader struggles. As luck would have it, I landed in the midst of a flock of angry pigeons on the roof of my apartment building.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! So for this fic, I'm experimenting with first person point of view, as well as race and how it mattered in the eighteenth century. I am Asian American, so I felt safer using the ethnicity I knew best, rather than risking it with any other.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Hamilton.**

* * *

My name is Liann Jin, and this is the story of how I died. Well, not really. This is the story of how my _past life_ died. Okay, that didn't really make sense, so I'll start at the beginning.

My father and mother were immigrants from Hong Kong and Taiwan, respectively, and I consequently grew up on a healthy diet of secretive swearing in Cantonese (This is the courtesy of my father; my mother knows only Mandarin, thankfully), classic discipline in the matter of education (this brings back bad memories), New York Chinatown, homemade steamed buns, and my parents' inherent distrust of "foreigners." ("But mom," I had asked upon first hearing this, "Aren't _we_ technically the foreigners?" Apparently, no. Fortunately for me, I was more than a little suspicious of this notion, and investigated the matter thoroughly, making my first few "American" friends, whom I adored for the wonderfully exotic blonde-ness and blue-eyed-ness. I was a precocious child, to say the least.)

Anyway, as I grew older, children of my age would crowd around me and ask what it was like to be like Mulan. I was confused; I wasn't Mulan! Of course, later, my parents would explain to me why people automatically assumed I was like Mulan, and taught me how to be offended when people asked me that question.

In school, I had my first encounter with native English-speakers. I was introduced to the looming class by my teacher, whom I admired immensely for her beautiful purple nails. This admiration disappeared however, as soon as she pronounced my name wrong.

"Class, this is Lie-Ann Jine. I ex-pect you to wel-come her ver-y warm-ly." She spoke as if to a deaf person, that is, pronouncing letter, and every syllable seperately, just...like...this...in...the...most...ann...oy...ing...fa...shion... Needless to say, I was not a fan of Mrs. Allen by the time class ended for lunch.

At lunch, I took out my stinky tofu. A girl a few seats down (I sat a few seats away from everyone, just to be safe) sniffed the air, turned green, and shouted to all the world, "Lie-Ann Jine just FARTED, and it SMELLS!" (First grade was a learning experience—I never brought stinky tofu in for lunch again.)

A group of children gathered to my corner quickly, hooting and giggling. "Haha! Lie-Ann just FARTED!" A few of them repeated gleefully.

Having only just been introduced to English, I proceeded to shrink into my seat and mutter, "I am called myself the Liann."

Of course, the little devils thought my atrocious state of grammar was hilarious, and continued to laugh to their nonexistent heart's content. Fighting tears, I ran to the bathroom, pursued by a band of soulless brats, flushed my lunch down a toilet, vowed never again to eat stinky tofu, and spent the remainder of lunch sobbing in an unoccupied stall.

Again, first grade was an experience.

Second grade, on the other hand, was when I discovered the magic of imaginary friends.

Of course, acknowledging my imaginary friends, Vera, Chuck, and Dave, did not help my reputation, and my already limited popularity was destroyed. But they were second-graders. They didn't know any better. What _really_ annoyed me was that their _parents_ started to call the school to complain because of my "dangerously malodorous lunches." (Seriously people! Just because it smells bad doesn't mean it's poisoned!) The school in turn called _my_ parents who ignored them, and sent me to school the next day with noodles that smelled of old socks. (It was, however, delicious, sooo...) Naturally, I retreated to the bathroom once more to rid myself of this ethnic shame that hung around me like a cloud of doom.

My childhood was filled with many tragic stories like this. Grade after grade, year after year, dragged on, and still, it was the same problem. Throughout this time, I, embittered by my contact with people, through myself into my studies, and soon, I had no friends but my imaginary ones. Pretty soon, they left, too.

But when I got to fifth grade, I discovered something new.

It was a typical July day, sweltering hot in New York city. I was wearing a T-shirt, jeans and my hair in a pathetically skimpy braid. At the time, I was busily engaged upon the task of staring discreetly at the male eye-candy of the fifth grade class. His name was Jason DuPont, a tall blonde, blue-eyed boy, the one every little fifth grade girl dreamed of "dating." (No, really; I heard a girl named Violet Chastley, a long-time tormentor, profess her undying love for Jason to the bathroom mirror. It would have been rather comical, actually, if I hadn't come into the bathroom for the exact same reason.)

Then my heart stopped (figuratively, not literally) and I began freaking out internally. He looked at me! My mind soared, and I felt like I was flying. Then "vain" me took over.

 _Play it cool, girl,_ I told myself, so I did. I plastered what I imagined a cute smile on my face, and began to strut over to him ostentatiously.

I smiled. "Hey."

Then I heard laughter behind me. Violet Chastley, in all of her redheaded, blue-eyed pomp and splendor had begun to catwalk over (well, the best a fifth-grader could, anyway), but had doubled over, clutching her stomach, with tears running down her cheeks. Then I heard more laughter, turned, and saw all of my dreams that had lasted all of twenty seconds crushed. Jason DuPont stood, leaning against one of his friends for support.

"I—I know you," he choked out, "You're that Chinese girl that brings in stinky lunch!" Everyone within earshot looked and saw the spectacle.

It was like a nightmare. Everywhere my eyes darted, I saw only enemies, and no friendly faces, sympathetic to my plight, so I did what I do best: I ran.

I ran far away from that place, with Violet Chastley and all of her clownishly hooting friends, and ended up in a place I didn't recognize. I found a library, always my refuge when things didn't come out the right way, and cried myself to sleep.

And that, dear audience, is my love life in a nutshell.

* * *

"Ermm...hello there," said a voice uncomfortably. "Can I help you?"

I rubbed my sleep-encrusted eyes. "Huh?" I asked. Clearly, I was not at my most eloquent.

The young man backed away quickly from my morning breath. I yawned, oblivious to his efforts.

"Are you alright?" He repeated, a little further away. "Do you need me to escort you to your parents?"

I blinked. "What are you wearing?" I inquired. (Look, my brain had just gone through an emotionally traumatic experience. Stop judging.)

"I'm—I'm sorry?" he said, clearly taken aback.

I giggled. "Why are you wearing that? It looks like you came straight out of a musical!"

"A what now?"

I shrugged, unwilling to explain the intricacies of theater.

"What's your name?"

"Alexander Hamilton!" He cried, straightening up instantly.

"O—Okay? I'm Liann Jin."

"What? Where are you from?" He took a breath. "Where are your parents?"

"Chinatown." I answered promptly.

Hamilton looked confused. "Where?"

"Y'know, that one place where tourists flock to?"

He went a little pale, and then flushed a deep red. "You mean...the Holy Ground?*"

"The what?"

"You know, the Holy Ground, where all the tourists go."

"I...guess?"

He blushed again and gulped. "Al—alright then. I suppose I could take you." He said reluctantly.

"Could you? That would be really nice."

"Alright..."

* * *

 ***So, the Holy Ground was a notorious red-light district in New York back then...if you still don't know what I'm talking about, look up the Holy Ground, in New York.**

 **One more thing: remember to review...please?**

 **Okay, bye!**

 **-Rainlight2427**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello everyone! I was blown away by the positive response that I received in my first chapter. I plan to update about once a month, but this chapter felt like it could wait no longer—normally, it will probably be a little later. Onwards!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Hamilton. :(**

* * *

We hurried out into the streets of Manhattan. Everything looked...different. Horses were clip-clopping down the road with carriages; women with terrifyingly tiny waists and bright gowns strolled around, complete with either big hair, or wigs; the men all wore long coats and grew out their hair. I felt ridiculously out of place with my modern clothes.

"What is this?" I asked. "Are you guys Amish or something?"

Alexander looked confused. "Amish? I do not understand."

"Y'know, the people who live without electricity!"

"I still don't understand you."

I let the matter drop.

A few people stared at me inconspicuously, probably because of the blue T-shirt with the words "ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE!" emblazoned on it as well as my blue...pants. (Prior to this, I had never noticed how tight jeans appeared). I suddenly felt self-conscious and realized that I hadn't seen so much as one bare arm from the men, let alone the women. A girl around my age gaped at me in blatant shock as a woman, presumably her mother, glared at me and shepherded the girl away to the other side of the road with the words, "Mind your eyes, child!"

"I _heard_ that, you know," I grumbled under my breath.

"What was that?" Asked Hamilton, glancing over.

"Nothing. What is with you guys and your weird clothes?"

"I see no problem with our apparel. You, on the other hand..." He trailed off and shot me another sideways freaked-out glance.

"Why do you guys always look at me like that? It's not like I'm walking around _naked_ or anything!"

He winced slightly at the mere suggestion, and looked around. I realized belatedly that maybe I shouldn't have spoked so loudly. The woman and her little girl across the street let out identical gasps, and Hamilton flushed a deep red and sped up.

I struggled to keep up. "Wait up!" I panted.

"Keep up!" He retorted.

I frowned. "What's up? I can probably find my own way home if it's too much trouble." I offered, slightly stung.

"No, no, it's fine. It's just that I prefer _not_ to be seen as a cad, if you will." He muttered, glancing at a tall, stately house at the corner.

I said, "What?" I saw him peer at the house—one window in particular, and I grinned, noticing the symptoms of my own malady. "You're _lovesick,_ " I cackled. "Who is she? Is she _preeettty?_ "

He flushed a bright red.

"What's her _name?_ "

Annoyed silence.

"...Does she know that you're creeping on her?"

More ominous silence.

"I find this _adorable._ "

He tried to ignore me, and gave most of the people passing an apologetic look.

"Well, you need to man up, and _ask_ her about herself. Don't just try to watch her—that's so creepy!"

A woman passing by coughed and began to cool herself with ostrich feathers that seemed to have been fit together into a fan. _Poor ostrich,_ I thought.

Hamilton made a face. "I am not excessively creepy! You sound like some of my friends."

I snorted indelicately. "I wonder why they say that."

He glared halfheartedly at me. "We cross here. This is a busy road; stick close to me."

"Alright-y," I said cheerfully.

He stepped off the curb, and I followed, realizing a second too late that the curb was much higher than what I was used to. _Oh, crap,_ I thought. I proceeded to trip off and land facedown into the muck, emerging after about two seconds. Practically blind for the next twenty seconds, the first thing I saw was a horse's hooves that impeded my vision.

I clamped my eyes shut and heard a loud shout.

Then I skipped back. Back to my cramped Chinatown apartment, back to Jason DuPont and Violet Chastley and all of the twenty first century. As luck would have it, I landed in the midst of a flock of angry pigeons on the roof of my apartment building.

"Ow, stop it!" I screeched as my eyesight was swarmed with grey feathers. "Gaah! PIGEONS!"

Look, if you are a tiny, innocent eleven-year-old, possessed, demon, city birds that are bred on the carbon monoxide of the nearby, ever-present taxis would frighten you out of your wits too. Me, by virtue of being me, tripped over a wayward pigeon and landed—quite hard, I venture to add—on the unforgiving concrete ground. I yelped in pain, tasting blood in my mouth as my tongue began to swell.

"Are you all right?" Asked a voice.

"Ermb...yeb." I answered, attempting, with all my might, to retain the lasts shreds of my dignity, even though I sounded like a whale with a bad cold. I twisted my head to catch sight of the witness. Who had dared observe the mighty Liann trip on a pigeon?

His eyes made me think of the sky on a cloudy day. He had long, shaggy blond hair—for a boy—that gleamed suspiciously in the Sun, but I didn't care. Tall, with pearly white teeth in a perfect—well, almost, but does it really matter?—horseshoe shape. In short, a dream-boat, a term I had heard in my early English-years. Jason DuPont was instantly forgotten. Thus is the love life of a fifth grader. I idly wondered why a child movie star was living in _Chinatown_ of all places!

He shook his hair out of his face. "You sure?" He asked. I did a double take. Was this angel on earth talking to me? After about thirty seconds of awkward silence in which he waited for an answer, I realized that he was, in fact, addressing me.

I shook myself awake. "Uhb, yeah. Tot'lly fine."

He shrugged elegantly, and action, which up until that moment, I had thought was impossible. "If you say so," he replied, unconvinced.

Finally understanding my advantage against other potential rivals for his affection, I sprang into action like a cobra in a hula-hoop. "Ah meand, ah guess ah could use some help. Gobing down dee stars. Or subthing," I stammered, cursing my swollen tongue the entire time.

"Ah. I see." He said.

"Wha's yer nam?" I asked, trying my darnednest not to stare at my wonderfully grimy sneakers.

"My name?"

I nodded vehemently.

"Luke. Luke George Harrison, I mean."

"Like form dat Sta Wa's?"

He glanced awkwardly at the pillar of smoke coming from a couple of blocks over. "Erm, I suppose."

"Oh. Ah'm Leen. Leen Jinn."

He half smiled. "Sounds like a Star Wars name."

 _Victory,_ I thought. "Ah s'pose." I said, grinning back.

"How old are you?" Asked Luke, holding the door open for me.

I nearly swooned. What a gentleman! Then his question registered. Well, sort of. "Did you'b sa' something?"

"What grade are you in?"

"Ob. Fith grad."

He nodded. "I'm in sixth grade."

I nearly fell over. A sixth-grader? This was going to be a sort of Romeo and Juliet type of thing. Sixth graders _never_ were to be seen with a measly fifth grader. Ah, Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?

Lost in my thoughts—deep philosophical thoughts, I tell you—I naturally tripped. Down the stairs. _Into the back of freaking Luke George Harrison_. I employed my choicest Cantonese swear words and hurried to patch things up.

"I'b so surry!" I squeaked.

He groaned a little and stirred. "No, it's fine."

"Are you'b sure?" I asked frantically. I could practically hear my mother's angry voice rage at me. _Who will marry you, eh? Not any good Chinese boy! Only a foreigner would marry a girl who is too skinny! You want to marry foreigner? You work at McDonalds then! You bring shame upon me just looking at you!_ That's my mom for ya. It's all very loving.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He said, rubbing the back of his head. "Just hurts a little, is all."

"Ob. Okay."

We stopped in front of my apartment door. "So," he began awkwardly, "I live on the fourth floor, room four hundred and thirty two. You can come any time you like, if you want. Careful though; my brother can be a jerk. I hear Chinese people are smart. Maybe we can do homework together..."

In that moment, the heavens opened for me. "Yeb, I'b like dat." I said, trying not to sound too overeager, forgetting my mother's warning of all "foreigners".

"See you 'round then." He said, offered, scuffing the gray-with-dust baseboard with his equally grey shoes.

"Okay!"

Of course, as soon as he left, the door flung open, and I beheld my mother wielding a spatula of bamboo. "Did you eat yet?" She demanded.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey guys! Thank you all for reviewing (this gives me a lot more motivation to write). Just so you know, the brief grammar lesson applies to most contractions in the English language, except for the ones that only abbreviate consonants; if any vowel is abbreviated, only put the apostrophe there. Also, this story is played by ear, so I really have no particular plans or outline for its plot, so I am open to suggestions—leave your's in a review or PM me. I value all input, and every review is carefully considered. Thank you all so much for reading—it means a lot to me!**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Hamilton...:(**

* * *

"No, the apostrophe goes _after_ the word, and _before_ the 'S.'" I growled for the millionth time.

"But why?" demanded Violet Chastley for the millionth time. I swore to myself that I would never again agree to let the teacher decide who I was tutoring.

" _Because_ the apostrophe stands in for the _vowel_ , you little..." I let myself trail off, cursing in my head.

"But why a vowel?"

 _Why you, you stupid cow?_ I wondered bitterly. Maybe I should scrap tutoring altogether.

"Because the National Grammar society has a penchant for discriminating against consonants. I don't know! Why would I know?" I snapped.

She scooted back a little, and muttered something under her breath.

And then I felt a peculiar tugging sensation. _Weird,_ said a nagging voice in my head. _You must be experiencing a hallucination. Congratulations, you're going insane._

"Shut _up_ ," I replied out loud.

"What, are you going crazy?" asked the blue-eyed she-devil.

 _Yes. Sanity is only a box for the ordinary._ I paused. "Whoops," I said. "That was out loud, wasn't it?"

She rolled her eyes, then looked vaguely disconcerted. "What is wrong with you?"

"Excuse me?" It was one thing to ask if someone was insane, but asking what was wrong with me? That was a new level.

 _Hmm, breaking records for us today, aren't we?_ mused the voice in my head.

 _Shut up. And while you're at it, maybe you could be helpful for once, and try to figure out what's going on._

 _Would you like me to perform a dance as well?_

 _Shut up._ And with that, I returned to the matter at hand.

"Your face. It's—it's..."

I waited slightly apprehensively for her explanation. What was happening? Was I glowing or something? Was this some strange side effect of time-travel?

"...it's—it's hideous!"

I closed my eyes and counted to ten. "Hilarious, Violet. What a scream. I mean, really. And guess what?"

"What?"

"You get extra contractions today for homework! Isn't this a momentous occasion? You should be so happy!"

Her face twisted into a scowl.

I hummed to myself and said, "Careful, if you keep making that face, it'll freeze, and where would you be then?"

She turned red, and I felt a surge of mean satisfaction. (I know, I was a terrible little girl.) That is, until she raised a hand to slap me. I let out a yelp and dodged ungracefully, crashing into a bookcase. I spied a beautiful copy of Merriam-Webster's dictionary, an unabridged monster of a book, with a leather binding, and did what I would never have done under normal circumstances: I hurled the brick of paper at her face.

Then something very bad happened.

I should notify the reader, right now, that whenever I do something bad, or momentous, or anything bad _happens_ , I close my eyes. It's a bad habit, I know, and I need to break it it.

Anyway, I have long since decided that the fates hate me. Why? Well, partly because they are the nasty crones, and dislike those who disrespect them, such as myself. I know, I know, I'm a charmer, but not everyone sees it. I'm just too punny!

But I digress.

The next thing I heard is silence, then a hundred thousand (or some other countless number) murmuring voices swept through my senses. They weren't particularly loud, and not clear enough for me to discern what they were saying, but they reminded me of wind whooshing through tall grass on a summer night, calm and peaceful.

I opened my eyes and blinked automatically, another mannerism of mine (though far less hazardous), whenever I am surprised. It was as if the voices, indistinct as they were, were flooding my senses...or it was just dark, and my mind was being tripped up. _Hmm,_ I thought, with a little effort, _maybe Violet was right about something, for once. I wonder if I'm insane._

Then the nasty little voice in my noggin replied snidely, _Or maybe you're dead, and you just haven't realized it yet._

 _Oh, shut your lil' food processor,_ I responded.

 _Who, me?_ It asked innocently. _I'll have you know that I haven't been able to eat since the disaster in '91._

 _...You don't_ have _a mouth..._

 _I am aware of the fact! It was probably—look, I don't know! It was something!_

 _Yeah,_ I thought smugly, _something—_

My conversation was rudely interrupted by...well, I don't really know. Since my first experience, I can only describe it in two ways: It feels like after you've been in a coma and are just waking up, groggily trying to figure out what's going on (and yes, I know what waking up from a coma feels like from unfortunate struggle—you'll learn later). But for those who are lucky enough to avoid comas, it also feels like an action movie; the rustling of eternal voices feels like the slow-motion part, and what happens immediately afterwards leaves me dazed and confused, because life resumes at its normal pace, and I am still recovering from going extraordinarily slowly, or quickly, I'm really not quite sure.

Like I said earlier, if there are Fates, they hate me. I mean c'mon! Anyway, the precise moment that I threw my hand forward to propel the dictionary, I had traveled backwards and time, and the accursed edition of Merriam-Webster's was sent forth into the now-terrified face a young man (who, by the way, seemed to have an nearly obscene amount of freckles).

"GAA-aahh!" He screamed, first in shock, then tapering off to "manly" groans on the floor.

"AAAARRGH!" I panicked, equally horrified. I glanced around the room, hyperventilating and looking for help. A familiar face popped out of the crowd of strangely dressed people.

"Alexander Hilton!" I shrieked, accidentally mangling his name. "Jonathan—David? Whichever dude you were named aft—Alexander! Alexander Hamilton!" He glanced around uncomfortably. When it became apparent that no one else in the immediate vicinity was called Alexander Hamilton, he reluctantly stepped forth.

"Do you mind not attacking my...compatriots with bricks?" He asked warily.

"A dictionary, actually," I corrected, hyper-aware of the exceeding awkwardness of the situation. "And I didn't _mean_ to hit him with it, even though he has a frightening number of freckles."

"Look, I know that it can be a little disquieting, but don't mention the freckles to him. Or turtles."

"Why not?"

"It will end with you having to listen to a long-winded explanation and rant about why people can't appreciate freckles and turtles. Just don't, trust me."

"Peculiar. Very peculiar...My friend does the same thing."

"Really?"

"No, not really. You guys are just crazy."

He rolled his eyes, and I stared in slight shock. Had I infected him with our modern ways, or did people roll their eyes long before I had come along? Was I to cause a disturbance in history? (Was I overthinking this?) I brooded on this for a while, vaguely conscious of Alexander introducing me to his friends.

"YO!" Shouted one of them. The others sighed and left, and the Freckled One (who was the one that had begun to shout), Alexander, and I were the only people at our table. I was brought back to attention with this distinct cry, and peered into his face, set in an expression of concentration as he focused on ascending the chair to the table, recognizing the hundreds (thousands? millions?) of freckles with a start. He continued: "I'm John Laurens in the place—"

He got no further than that: some poor barmaid, arms full of empty glasses, set her cargo down and began berating him with a ferocity that would put an angry mama bear to shame. "Furniture doesn't clean itself, you know! And really? How old are you, five? No? _THEN YOU SHOULD KNOW BETTER THAN TO CLIMB ON MY TABLES!"_ Breathing deeply, she lowered her voice to a threatening pitch. "Am I understood, or must I eject you from the premises by force?"

He meekly assented to never rampage across chairs or tables, but ruined the effect by balancing the chair on its two back legs, propping his boots on the tabletop, grinning, and to top it all, winking at the poor girl. Fuming, she swept away, turning once to glare at the offending man. He wiggled his eyebrows at her, and she stalked, red-faced, into the kitchen.

"That was a little mean," I commented, as the Freckled One (John, was it?) watched her disappear into the savory smells of the back room.

"What, that?" He said. "That's a little mean? What about hurling bricks at innocent people's faces? What do you think of that?" He didn't look particualrly angry, only a little amused.

"Well," I began. "Firstly, that was dictionary, not a brick. Maybe hitting your head affected your brain. Secondly, I didn't mean to throw it at _your_ face. Thirdly, you are, by the looks of it, in no way innocent. And fourthly, that does not change the fact that you were being obnoxious to the barmaid."

He shrugged, indifferent. "That was just Genevieve; she's fun to mess with. She's intimidating at first, but she wouldn't hurt a fly. I mean, I have yet to be 'ejected from the premises by force.' A heart of gold, I tell you." He thought for a moment. "Unless you climb anything within her vision. Then she only has a heart of silver. Don't worry, she loves me, secretly."

I was skeptical. "Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure. She'll give me a free drink if she's in a good mood."

Alexander rolled his eyes again. "She gives _everyone_ drinks when she's in a good mood." He got up and stretched. "Well, I'm off."

Our party was down to two people, and as Alexander left, someone came in and loudly called for the server. Genevieve dashed out, dark hair flying, and greeted the customer. Laurens watched her with an expression akin to affection. Then he sat up suddenly, ignoring the sound of knocking as the chair legs banged to the ground. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Him. Seabury. That chicken-legged, son of a..." Here Laurens trailed off glaring at the other man.

"Who? What?"

His countenance changed suddenly. "Wanna go do something?" Asked Laurens, beaming.

"Uh...maybe?" I said, slightly taken aback.

"It'll be fun. I promise. Just follow my lead."

Dubious about our prospects of success under his lead, I, against my better judgement, nevertheless, followed him outside.

"Where are we going?"

"Shhh. Just follow my lead."

Together, we ducked behind bushes into the alleyway. "Is this illegal?" I whispered.

"Maybe. I mean, technically, yes. But no one listens to ol' Georgie in his palace in London anyway. But no, _this_ part is not illegal. I just need to make sure..." He peeked into a window and nodded to himself. "Thought so. Let's see, Chicken-Legs is with Genevieve right now, and she hates him, so we have limited time."

Growing increasingly suspicious, I narrowed my ayes at him. "What were you looking at?" I began hoisting myself up to look through the window.

Laurens pulled me down. "Nope. Nothing appropriate for young children to behold."

I was struck with a sudden epiphany. "Wait, is Genevieve a—a prostitute?"

He nodded gravely. "Yes; this is what I like to do to Seabury whenever he comes here."

"You like to watch them?" I whispered, scandalized.

"No! I was just making sure that—nevermind. So, this may be the slightly illegal part."

I gave a long-suffering sigh. "Go on," I prompted resignedly, feeling far too mature for a fifth-grader.

* * *

 **Remember to review please! It gives me a reason to get up and keep typing up Liann's (mis)adventures. Maybe I'll even update faster 'cause of you guys give so much encouragement (and ideas)!**

 **See you next time!**

 **-Rains**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hi everyone! Thank you all for reviewing, even Amberly. Callie, thank you for sticking up for me; it's incredibly encouraging to know that I have such supportive readers. I know this is a little early in the month for an update, but I might be able to post something else. Maybe a new story, but I'm not quite sure yet.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Hamilton.**

* * *

"This is not a good idea," I grumbled for the millionth time. "This is a really, really bad idea."

"Shh," whispered John.

"I cannot believe that you do this every time the guy comes here," I hissed back.

"Well, not _every_ time, but most times, so..." We were in the stables, looking for Seabury's horse. "Aha!" He whisper-shouted triumphantly. "Found the stupid beast."

"Don't be mean to the horse," I told him reproachfully. Like most girls, I loved horses, although my real-life experience with horses was limited purely to books and the previous two minutes, when I first set foot in a stable. I mean, I had ridden (on the back of) a motorcycle, before (long story)—how much harder could just leading a horse around be?

John swung the gate open and slipped into the stall. "Um. Bad idea." I repeated.

"Shush. It'll be fine." He mounted the horse. "Get on?"

I opened and closed my mouth a few times, debating with myself on whether or not to go along. "Oh, alright. But this is still a stupid idea."

John helped me onto the horse, and I clutched his waist, terrified. (The ground was very far away.) I gulped and tightened my grip. He grinned; "Hold on tight and—"

"HEY!" Came an angry voice. "What are you doing here? That's not your horse!"

I froze. "Umm...it's not?" I asked guiltily.

"No—I mean yes, it is," intervened John. "This is definitely our horse!"

The groom strode towards us, eyes burning furiously. "Get off that horse! You know the penalty for horse-thieves."

I prodded John in the back. "What's the penalty for horse-thieves?"

"HANGING!" Shouted the enraged groom, interrupting.

"Oh..."

John turned awkwardly around to pat me reassuringly on the shoulder. "No, we won't be hanged, don't worry."

"Not be hanged?" The groom cried, flabbergasted, coming closer.

John smiled and turned back, and faced forwards. "No, we won't. Y'know why?"

I closed my eyes, severely regretting my decision to board the horse at all. Oh, if only I had some impulse control. "Please don't tell me you're gonna do what I think you're gonna do."

He kicked the horse hard, and the understandably upset animal let out a snort, and nearly trampled the poor valet in his haste to escape the cramped stables.

"You just did what I told you not to!" I shrieked. "No! Nonono! I—no—stop!"

But the horse was beyond reasoning. As we charged out into open daylight, I felt my seat slipping. Desperately, I clutched wildly at the air, only managing to maintain a secure hold on the back of John's coat. "You alright?" He asked, without turning around.

"No! I'm really not!"

"Well, sorry, can't do anything at the mo—"

At that second, the accursed horse reared on its hind legs, and I fell off.

* * *

"But she's only a girl!"

"She's also a horse thief—and one of the worst I've seen, actually. Who, after contriving to steal the creature, manages to fall off into the hands of her pursuers?"

I blinked drowsily awake.

"You cannot possibly allow her to be hanged, Samuel!"

I was in a slightly lumpy cot in a dark, mildew-smelling room.

"That's the penalty of the law! _I_ certainly don't want her to be hanged."

The arguing voices slowly faded away, accompanied by their echoing footsteps.

I looked around; the only source of light was the flickering rushlight* on the floor. I picked it up and peered out of the tiny window grating in the door. Was I in jail? I gently placed the rushlight back in its holder and flopped onto the straw cot. Eleven years old, and already a horse thief. But was I a yet a _convicted_ horse thief?

 _Bring me back,_ I thought miserably. _Whoever puts me through this, please bring me back home._

As if on cue, the door creaked open, and a figure slipped in. "Hello?" I whispered, backing against the wall, feeling all too loud.

"Shhh," said the figure. "Don't say a word. This—" here the figure threw off his hood dramatically to reveal himself "—is a rescue."

I stared incredulously. "John?" I asked.

"Yes?" he asked a little irritably. He seemed disappointed about my lack of enthusiasm.

"Um, never mind."

He bent forward and clicked a pair of not-so-shiny handcuffs around my wrists.

"...John?"

"Mm-hm?"

"Is that blood?"

He glanced at the metal, paled, and said, "What? Pfft, no. What blood?" He scraped slightly at the reddish stain. "I'm pretty sure that's just...rust. Come on."

I trailed after him dubiously. After all, the last time I had listened to him had ended with me in jail. We paused at a desk with a bored-looking man behind it. He barely flicked through the papers, grunted, and waved us off.

At long last, we stepped into the sunlight, where he took off the handcuffs. "You're welcome," said John smugly.

"Fine. Thank you," I said, a little irritated. He took no notice.

"Well, I think that was a rousing success."

"A rousing success?"

We turned the corner and entered the tavern that we had vacated some time before. "Yes," John answered cheerily, and began recounting what had happened after I had fallen off.

"So, maybe I didn't realize that you fell off right away. I was a little busy keeping the horse from murdering anyone—"

"Almost murdered _me_ ," I grumbled.

"—and finally, at great cost, rode the beast to the relative safety of some tavern's stable—but not this one." He chuckled to himself. "Old Seabury is not gonna find his favorite horse anytime soon."

"So, you weren't caught?"

"Well, not _really_. I mean, the groom there is a friend of mine, and I know the owner, so I'm safe. Pretty safe."

"Really?"

"As far as I know."

"I dunno. You've shown fairly limited knowledge in the short time that I've known you."

"John. Laurens." Another voice interrupted, and John's smirk slipped a little.

"Eh?"

The barmaid—Genevieve, was it?—glowered down at him. "If I recall correctly, you haven't paid for your bill for the last time you came. Are you going to give me an excuse, or must I forcibly evict you from your lodgings?"

He fumbled in his pocket. "Alright, alright, yeesh, woman. I got the bill. Here, take it."

She pushed her dark hair to the side as she counted the money.

"Keep the change," said John.

Genevieve raised her eyebrows. "You're short by five shillings; there is no change."

He sat up, red-faced. "Oh. Sorry 'bout that.

I snickered into the palm of my hand and was elbowed in the ribs for it.

"Thanks very much," she said a little tartly, and he grinned sheepishly at her again. Then he switched attitudes.

"So, do you get a lot of business in the day?" began John leaning forwards and supporting himself on his elbow. The elbow slipped, and he nearly face-planted into the table.

"Yes, and I wish I could stay longer, but..." Genevieve trailed off.

"No, no—it's fine." He said, not letting go of his money.

She pried it away.

He let out a lovelorn sigh as the girl hurried away.

As soon as she was out of earshot, I burst out laughing.

"Oh, shut up," said John.

"That—that was amazing," I gasped out. "I mean, really, it was too much when you accidentally underpaid her, then told her to 'keep the change...'"

I closed my eyes, and heard dead silence, opening them to find myself somewhere completely different. A castle. Maybe I had entered the realm of knights, dragons, and fair ladies! Yes!

"Ahem."

I looked up to see a man dressed in rich clothing seated upon a throne.

"Oh," I said in a tiny voice. _Please no, please don't let this be him._ "Who are you?"

He fumed down at me. "I," he began, "am the King of England. And what guard gravely overlooked his duties so far as to let a common vagabond into the room?"

* * *

 ***Rushlight: A candle made by dipping the pith of a rush in tallow. This was historically known as a poor man's light, since wax candles were somewhat of a luxury back then.**

 **Review! Please review, review, review! REVIEW LIKE YOUR LIFE DEPENDED ON IT, MUAHAHA! (Or maybe not, but still, review!)**

 **See y'all later!**

 **-Rain**


	5. Chapter 5

**He is risen, everyone!**

 ** _He is not here; He has risen!_**

 **- _Luke 24:6_**

 **Happy Easter, everyone! (I know it's an early update, but EASTER!)**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Hamilton. Just my numerous OC's.**

* * *

I glanced around nervously and gulped. "Erm, you see, I'm not a vagabond. I just...jump around. From place to place. Y'know, time to time. It's all a misunderstanding. You know."

An awkward silence ensued, and the king glowered down at me.

"I'mreallyreallyreallyreallyreallyreallysorryforinterruptingyourveryimportantmeetingI'lljustbegoingnow," I blurted out, before running.

I saw the solid-looking doors slam closed in front of me, and I skidded to a halt.

"Explain yourself." The king's tone brooked no argument.

I couldn't tell them the truth.

Right?

"Um, like I said, it's all a misunderstanding! I didn't _mean_ —"

"You didn't mean to be caught spying?" Asked the king icily.

"I wasn't spying! I swear! It's a, um...misunderstanding?"

"So you've told me."

More silence, and I opened my mouth to try to convince him of my innocence.

"It is! It really, really is!" My voice was quivering with fear. "Please don't kill me."

* * *

"And you can _stay_ in there until you learn the habit of honesty! No one will believe your cock-and-bull story about horseless carriages, and lights that aren't made of fire, and—and _flying machines!"_ The prison door clanged shut ominously.

The cell reeked, as if some previous inhabitant hadn't bathed for years, and had only recently been relocated.

I curled into the straw miserably. And sprung up almost immediately. The straw was _moving_.

A rat? Fleas? A cell mate?

All three, it turned out.

The first, I named Marcellus the Rat.

The second lived in the straw, existing only to annoy and itch prisoners to death.

The third, I learned belatedly, did not take kindly to newcomers.

"AAARRRGHHHH!" I bellowed as a terrifying form rose out of the bed of straw. I rushed to the door. "Help! You've celled me with a psychopath! Help!"

The guard banged on the door. "Quiet!" He ordered.

"Who are you?" Hissed the figure menacingly as he (I later found out that it was a "he") advanced.

"L-Lian Jinn," I whispered, studying the blocks of stone of the walls, grimy with some unspeakable, crusty substance.

"Why are you here?"

I buried my face in my hands. "It...was a misunderstanding."

He chuckled softly."Tell me."

I took a deep breath. "Well, my parents are—were from Asia—my mom was from Taiwan—which _is_ its own country—or should be, anyway—and my dad was from Hong Kong which has really good Cantonese food, but really bad Macaroni soup—don't try it, it's really gross—and they moved to New York, 'cause they got on a plane—which is a flying machine by the way, and my mom got okay grades, but that's fine 'cause she's our cook and she is a really good cook, except for Thanksgiving, 'cause she doesn't know how to make a turkey and we just eat fish on Thanksgiving—except once we went to KFC, but then my little brother got food poisoning, and my mom thinks all fast food will give us food poisoning cause of that _one time_ he got food poisoning, so I haven't had a McDonald's meal for the past five years, 'cause she's always like, 'Liann, don't eat that, you will get food poisoning!'

"But my dad's pretty good. He got good grades, and now he works for a good company, and he's a pretty good cook, too, only my mom has taken over the kitchen. He taught me how to swear in Cantonese, but my mom doesn't know Cantonese, so she can never catch me. But I grew up speaking a mix of Mandarin and Cantonese, but I didn't learn English until I was like in first or second grade, but I still didn't know a lot, and had bad grammar—a thing of the past, now, thankfully—and my mom packed leftovers for lunch, but everyones thought I smelled weird, 'cause she packed stinky tofu—which, despite its name, is quite delicious—but it was really just the food, so I haven't eaten lunch at school since I was seven, and my parents still don't know.

"But then I met Jason DuPont, who's really cute, but the guy living in my apartment building is even better, but then he laughed at me, and I was crying, and then I jumped backwards like two hundred years and met a Founding Father and almost got stepped on by a horse, but then I got back home, and fell and then I met that guy who lives in my apartment building that I told you about, and his name is Luke, but he's, like, older than me, and he's a sixth grader, and I only a fifth grader, so it's gonna be another Romeo and Juliet thing. But I don't even like Romeo and Juliet! It's overrated! Shakespeare has so many better plays that he wrote—Macbeth, King Lear, Julius Caesar, Antony and Cleopatra, Much Ado About Nothing, As You Like It, The Tempest, The Corpse Bride—wait, that's Tim Burton. Well, he's good too.

"But then I jumped backwards _again_ , but just as I was throwing a dictionary at my student's face, Violet Chastley, 'cause she's like a cow, and was insulting my face and sanity, and hey, it's not my fault imaginary voices invaded my mind! Anyway, the book traveled back with me, and I accidentally threw it at John Laurens' face. But now he's in love with a barmaid and then he went to steal a guy's horse, and dragged me along, except I was like, 'No, I don't wanna!' but he took me along anyway, and I fell off the back of the horse that we were stealing, and I woke up in another jail cell, and then John came and bailed me out or something—I wasn't sure if that was entirely legal either— and we went back to the tavern, but then I jumped to England, and the king got mad and threw me into a nasty prison cell and it's probably covered with nasty stuff like snails and slugs, which I'm, like, allergic to, but I'm not _really,_ I just kind of am, 'cause I'm squeamish when it comes to snails or slugs, 'cause my cousin put some in my hair one time, and I accidentally did a handstand on a huge banana slug, _and I really, really hate snails and slugs."_

My words echoed around the musty cell, and I realized that I had told a complete stranger my life story. _Go, me._

The cellmate blinked. "Flying machines?"

I sighed in frustration. "I go through all that, and all you get out of it are planes?"

He turned to the door. "Guard! You've mistakenly installed an asylum inmate in my cell! Make her leave!"

I nearly stomped my foot in frustration. "I am _not_ insane! Cut that out!"

He looked at me sideways as the annoyed guard pounded on the door. "Prisoners are not to communicate to guards!"

"What's _your_ story?" I asked.

He grunted, but made no other noise.

"I mean, we're gonna be sharing a cell for a while. You might as well tell me who you are now."

He sighed and swept off his hood. I gaped in unabashed surprise.

"What? Not what you were expecting?" He smirked. I nodded in mute astonishment.

In front of me stood a _boy_ , no older than fifteen, with unkempt, messy brown hair, and startlingly green eyes. If it weren't for the circumstances, younger me probably would have had a crush the size of the moon.

I gulped and mentally slapped myself. "So, what's your name?" I pressed on.

"I—they call me Ridley." He looked proud.

"That's really lame."

Ridley rolled his eyes. "Well, I apologize if my name happens to inconvenience you."

"No! I didn't mean it like that! I was just wondering...don't you have a first name?"

"NO! I mean, just call me Ridley."

I couldn't think of anything to say, so I curled up in a corner unoccupied by a human being or straw, and dreamt soundly.

* * *

 _I heard a voice, that cried,_ _"George Washington_ _Is dead, is dead!"_ _And through the misty air_ _Passed like the mournful cry_ _Of sunward sailing cranes._

 _I saw the pallid corpse_ _Of the dead sun_ _Borne through the dark sky._ _Blasts from Virginia_ _Lifted the sheeted mists_ _Around him as he passed._

 _And the voice forever cried,_ _"George Washington_ _Is dead, is dead!"_ _And died away_ _Through the dreary night,_ _In accents of despair._

 _They laid him in his tomb_ _With horse and harness,_ _As on a funeral pyre._ _And the voice forever cried,_ _"George Washington_ _Is dead, is dead!"*_

* * *

I was awoken by my cell-mate shaking me roughly. I sat up. "Ow," I said, rubbing the back of my neck.

"Breakfast," grunted Ridley. "Want some?"

I stared at the unappetizingly beige pool of liquid at the bottom of the bowl, as pale maggots squirmed through the piece of black bread beside it. "Um, I'm fine, thanks."

He wolfed his portion down. "They only give two meals a day," he warned.

I prodded it the porridge (prodded it!), and it jiggled strangely. "You can have it."

He looked up eagerly, and I wondered how long he had been in jail. "Are you sure?"

"Um, yes?"

"That does not seem very sure..."

"Um, okay? I mean, yes, you can have it." The lumpy beige stuff was gone in seconds.

I was watching Ridley lick the last of the porridge (or whatever it was) and devour the bread—maggots and all, and he looked up. "Yes?" He asked, and I realized that he was uncomfortable being constantly observed.

I turned my gaze elsewhere, and pretended to study the wall. It was boring; it was gray, and pretty soon I had memorized the grimy surface with its extra crack that was shaped as a lightning bolt. Then I had the prickling sensation of being scrutinized, and whipped my head around to find myself nose-to-nose with Ridley, who immediately sat back, smirking.

There was an embarrassed silence in which the two of us stared at each other.

"So," I began conversationally. "How'd you end up here?"

* * *

 ***No, I did not write this...First reviewer to guess who wrote it without Googling gets a virtual cookie.**

 **REVIEW! God bless!**

 **~Rainlight2427**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey guys, I'm probably going to revise this story a lot, and you may notice a few minor ones already. Anyway, I'm putting this story (officially) on hiatus until Christmas break, and I promise you—I** ** _promise_** **you—that I will have an update by New Years'. I know, I'm a terrible procrastinator, but I have had a lot on my plate—just gotten into the swing of the curious beast that is called high school. Also, I joined my school's debate team! ^,^ Very exciting. If you ever decide to join a debate team, DO LINCOLN-DOUGLAS. It's the only way to go. :)**

 **Welp, it was wonderful talking to you all after many a month of silence, so comment or PM with any comments, questions, or the unavoidable complaint!**

 **See you at Christmas!**

 **-Rain**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hi guys! Yeah, I'm updating like fourteen or fifteen hours late, buuuuut, hey, Happy New Year! Hopefully 2018 will be better than 2017...**

 **Anyway, I don't own Hamilton. :(**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

"Ridley."

No reply.

"Heya, Ridley."

More silence.

"Ridleeeeeey." When he refused to respond for the third time, I rolled over and poked him in the back. Physical contact with another person was a surefire way to irritate him out of his silence.

He rolled off of his musty-smelling pallet and angrily turned to face me, clutching something in his hands. "What do you want?"

"Whatcha doing?" I asked.

He turned around again. "Go away."

Curiosity piqued, I inched closer to him. Something reeked from him—a smell that reminded me vaguely of the alley with the dumpster behind my apartment building, but one that I could not quite place.

It was a dead rat.

Let me repeat that for you: It. Was. A. Dead. Rat.

I heard him crooning softly to it, and nearly fainted. _Abort mission, abort mission!_ I fell over backwards, my ragged fingernails scrambling for purchase on the cracked stone floor. He turned around, puzzled.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

I nodded mutely. At his expectant stare, I further elaborated. "Y-yeah. I'm okay, I guess."

The boy shrugged it off and rolled his eyes, muttering about crazy girls who invade his nice empty cell. I shrank against the wall, hoping to God Almighty that he wasn't in jail for murder or anything like that.

I leaned against the wall. It had been a few days, but I was still unsure of how my time in this era translated to time back at home. I got up. Hopefully I hadn't missed anything important like New Year's. God, please no. I began to pace, agitated. What about Christmas? I mean, it's not like there was much to celebrate at Christmas...My parents still had yet to grasp the concept ("I give you life, food, shelter, clothing. Why do you need more?" demanded my mother at the very request). I sat down. Then a thought occurred to me. What if my brother took my stuff? It wasn't like he hadn't done something like that before. I got up.

"Stop moving," snapped Ridley from his corner.

I sat down.

Outside, a parade of soldiers marched past, the music echoing into the small stone cell. I envied them in their warm-looking red coats. The snow glittered on the rooftops of London, the streets a dirty grey. I shivered under the thin blanket. Earlier, I had compiled everything I owned in to a pile (a small pile, mind you), and I dove in, grateful for the small comfort they provided.

* * *

I suppose I had fallen asleep and then jumped to sometime or something, because when Ridley shook me awake, we were not in our cramped cell. His eyes were open huge as he pulled me to my feet as he stammered out an explanation. "You—you were _asleep!_ And then you kinda just started glowing, and so I tried to wake you up, and—and—"

I cut him off. "Wait, so I was _glowing?_ Dude, I didn't know I could do that! That's awesome!" I glanced around. "Where, uh, where are we?" We _appeared_ to be in between two buildings in good ol' New York City. As far as I could tell, we were in the modern age. A car honked angrily.

Ridley let out the tiniest of whimpers (though he would never, ever admit it). "I don't know."

I took one look at his sad, confused face, and figured he had a right to the truth. After all, no on else had ever traveled with me. "Hey, remember what I said about being from the future? Yeah, uh, I wasn't lying about that."

His eye twitched. "I'm in the future." He took a breath. "I'm in the _future._ "

I watched him cautiously. "Uh, yes." I wracked my mind. _What to do, what to do?_ What could I do? I was a lonely fifth-grader with no friends in the midst of a very modern city with a very unmodern boy. This was going to take a lot of thought.

* * *

"Here," I said, offering Ridley an armful of blankets and towels. "You make yourself comfortable here. I know the fire escape isn't the best guest room, but,"— I glanced up at the sky—"hopefully it won't snow too much tonight."

The boy nodded mutely. I noticed he had been characteristically untalkative, and hoped that was just Ridley being Ridley, and not some form of strange culture-shock. A loud clanging accompanied by cussing in Mandarin erupted from the kitchen window, a few feet to the left of the fire escape.

"I'm going in now," I said awkwardly, at a complete loss as to what to say. Thankfully, my room's single window allowed me a generous view of the dumpster and alley, and it opened over the fire escape. I climbed back into my room.

Now for the hard part. "Mama? I'm ho-ome!" I called, opening my bedroom door.

My mother appeared in a flurry, a goddess in her blue striped apron. Despite being less than five feet, she effortlessly swept me up in a hug. "Why you don't leave a note?" She demanded, smacking my arm hard. I winced. "We thought you joined a gang!"

"Wait, what?" I blinked. "You thought I joined a gang?" I wasn't even in Middle School, for crying out loud! These people.

She ignored my question. "Have you eaten yet?"

Five smuggled pieces of bread, and ten dumplings later, I edged towards my room, my contraband items folded into a napkin. My mother reappeared _out of freaking nowhere,_ as mothers are wont to do. I nearly dropped my napkin in shock.

"What are you hiding, Lian?" demanded my mother. "Let me see." She seized my wrist, and my bread came tumbling out. "Aha! So this is what they teach you on the streets! Stealing, eh?"

I grinned at her. "Uh, yeah! The gang just asked me to bring some food for them...Uh, one of the women had a baby and she wanted good home cooking!" Flattery was my only option.

My mom brightened considerably. "I have many leftover! Stay here!"

She bustled back with a tray of dumplings. My jaw dropped. Seeing my greedy stare, she warned, "Don't touch these, Lian! This is for childbirth only!" I wondered what she would say if she saw Ridley eating them.

"Yes, ma'am!" I chirped, eager to appease my mother's wrath.

She nodded. "Now go. Rob some tourists."

"Uh, okay Mom!"

I hurried out to Ridley with the food. "Eat these," I ordered, dropping the tray into his lap.

As he reached out, our hands touched, and then the most peculiar feeling came. _Oh, no..._ I thought.

I shut my eyes, and all of a sudden, Ridley was on the ground puking up his guts beside a building in New York of the 1770's. The tray of dumplings lay there, quite undamaged.

I looked up. The building was on fire. As I scanned the world outside the little alleyway, I came to a conclusion: New York City was aflame.

* * *

 **Dun, dun, DUN! Kinda cliffhanger-y, I guess. I hope you enjoyed reading! So one of my lovely reviewers and I had struck up a correspondence, and their advice helped revamp my story a bit. As of today, I will respond to reviewers through PM or A/N.**

 **To be completely honest, I wasn't planning on having Ridley in the story for so long...I really play this story by ear. Sooooo...If you have any ideas for the story, just PM me or review! I will respond to every reader. :)**

 **To Flutteringlively: Thanks! Lian is around that age (10 to 11); I have edited that accordingly. Thanks for catching that! As for inspiration, It's kinda been multiple influences. I'm heavily influenced by _The Skipper,_ a Lord of the Rings fanfiction (it's under my favorite stories; it's amazing), wherein the main character skips around from Middle Earth to our Earth, and I thought that would be kind of interesting for a time travel fic, especially because the reader can just get a couple of vignettes of that time period. Thanks for reviewing!**

 **Thanks to everyone for reading!**

 **\- Rain**


	8. ANNOUNCEMENT

**NEW POLICY ON STORIES, AS OF JUNE 2018**

Hello! As summer begins, I will be undertaking the project of rewriting my existing stories. As it is, I feel rather unsatisfied with the quality of my works as well as the consistency of their updating schedule; I am, therefore, putting them all on hiatus as I rewrite and finish them all.

From now on, I will only publish stories that I have finished writing and editing. Thanks for reading!


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